First, let me apologize for my late post. As this is my first time with chicklit, it is also my first time with blogging. And, as I found out today, “Save” is not the same as “Publish.” So, my post was saved, and not published. Here it is, published:

This time, I almost enjoyed the book. The story is interesting, somewhat exciting. One feels that they are also on an adventure, learning from travels while reading the book. I, as a reader, could really relate this time to the desires of Liz.

But I didn’t like her. Why? Maybe other people feel the same way, maybe other responses to the book can help me pinpoint why, while I can relate to Liz’s desires, I do not like her. So, I look them up. First one I read: A New York Times book review by Jennifer Egan.

“This is easy to believe. If a more likable writer than Gilbert is currently in print, I haven’t found him or her. And I don’t mean this as consolation prize, along the lines of: but she’s really, really nice. I mean that Gilbert’s prose is fueled by a mix of intelligence, wit and colloquial exuberance that is close to irresistible, and makes the reader only too glad to join the posse of friends and devotees who have the pleasure of listening in.”

O.K, so clearly my dislike is not a general consensus. So, I think deeper as to why I do not like this woman. I relate to her, I really do. She is needy and independent at the same time. Obsessed with being with another yet striving for freedom from any one else. Trapped by the constraints of forming needy relationships, and using all her might to get out. This is me: this is me right now. I am experiencing the exact thing that sent her on this journey right now!

Maybe I do not like seeing myself reflected in others. Maybe it hurts to much to see one’s own faults by reading about them in another. No, I like that part. I like being able to see my own faults without the harshness of placing them all on myself.

I know, she is pretentious. She is yuppy pretentious. She thinks she is so open minded because she spends time with an Indian Guru. She thinks she is so spontaneous and brave for picking up and leaving for another country. She thinks she is so strong-willed to leave, stay away, learn another language etc. She is conceded and in no way humble and I don’t like her. Really? No, I sound like a jealous high school girl. Maybe Elizabeth Gilbert really likes herself, but why shouldn’t she? She is a nice, fascinating, smart woman. She is not pretentious, she likes certain parts of herself and is proud of them, and she should be.

So why do I not like her? Why can I not connect with her? I think I am jealous. I think that horrible, awful, useless feeling is blocking my connection with Elizabeth Gilbert: She’s doing it and I’m not. She is breaking away from neediness, re-making herself a strong woman who will be better after the fight, and I am not. She is stopping herself from falling back into her same old routine, and I am falling back into that same old routine.

What is interesting about this is that usually people like reading about fantasy worlds they would like to be in, about things they want to be doing. The Harry Potter phenomenon: everybody has a secret desire to be a part of that magic world. The common themed children’s book of running away into the woods, as in My Side of the Mountain. Children like reading that book because they escape to a world in which they themselves have run away to a mountain and are living off of fish they catch with their bare hands. Or take the common mystery book. People like to escape into worlds. That’s what so much pleasure reading is. So why don’t I like escaping into a world that I so want to be a part of, the world of breaking free, re-finding happiness without needing anyone else?

Because it is to real. While no one can actually escape to a world of magic, or run away to a mountain, I could break free as Liz is doing. And, she is not fictional. She is real, and she is doing it. And I am not. She is showing me that I could do it, and yet I am not breaking free. She is proving to me that I could if I wanted to bad enough, if I was stronger; but I am weak. She is stronger, and braver, and she will come out happier after her experience. And I will not. I do not like Elizabeth Gilbert because I relate to her too much, and she is doing what I wish I was strong enough to do.

She’s doing something about it and I’m not, and, even worse, I probably am not going to.